


Might of a Miracle

by phantomadrenx



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Deviates From Canon, Dimension Travel, Eventual Relationships, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, For Want of a Nail, Friendship, Gen, Gray Jedi, Illiteracy, Jedi Code, Jedi Knights, Jedi Training, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Precognition, Self-Insert, Swearing, The Force, Time Travel, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6728236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomadrenx/pseuds/phantomadrenx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The future isn't set in stone, it's a constantly changing force that's shaped by the choices we make. Riley knows what choices lead to what, but she doesn't really know how and what she's actually supposed to do. Changing things... makes things complicated. And her life is complicated enough as it is without the Force getting involved. Otherwise known as: Riley was minding her own business, but the Force decided that shit needs fixing and she's the one for the job. Alternatively titled: "The Force Did It."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act 1 - Caught in a Storm: Riley

The day starts off normally.

Riley hits the snooze button on her phone twice before she finally rolls out of bed. Then it’s a half-asleep stumble to the bathroom and she goes through the same routine she does every day. Get up, brush her teeth and fix her hair, get dressed, and then make sure her bag’s packed.

Her tea sits on the counter, waiting for her when she comes down the stairs. There’s a Starbucks and two Timmies on campus, so she’ll grab something to eat from one of those – depending on what she feels like. She snags her trusty boots from where they’re sitting on the rubber mat by the door, pulls them on, and laces them up.

The last thing she does before she heads for the door is grab her tea off the counter.

The weather today’s awfully mild, moving steadily from the last clinging remnants of winter into spring, so she shrugs on a light coat and leaves. She triple-checks the door behind her as she locks it, before going to see whether or not her shitty roommate has actually checked their mail or not.

Nothing but junk mail in their slot, so she chucks it in the recycling. Then crosses the road from their residence complex to make the short walk the rest of the way into campus.

Most of the snow has melted by now, leaving little dirty piles of it along the sidewalk and the sides of the road. It’s also warmer than she thought it was, so she unzips her coat and shifts her travel mug to her other hand. Checking her phone, she sends off a reply to her mom’s text from a ridiculous hour of the morning (because time differences fucking _suck_ ) and replies to her friend.

Her day is off to its usual, boring start. There’s nothing unusual about it.

Obviously, that’s why it’s going to go completely and totally to _fucking shit_.

Simply put, there’s no real way to describe what happens next.

For in one moment, she’s about to take another step forward. In the next, it feels like she’s being pulled apart at the seams; she’s been stretched thin, across a vast amount of space. There’s no noise. She cannot scream. She’s being torn apart and as though every inch of her flesh is on fire. There’s bile in her throat, but nowhere for it to go.

And as she’s pulled, she feels _things_ race through her. Too many emotions, thoughts, fragments of words and sentences, nothing that she can catch. She tries. She tries to latch onto _something_ – _anything_ – but there’s nothing. Her hands won’t move, her mind cannot reach. Her head feels too small to fit all of this, but she’ll never forget.

Sorrow. Anger. Happiness. Love. Triumph. _Loss_. Heartbreak. Pain. _Hope_.

Each emotion flits through her, there and gone before she can do much more than identify them. She’s in a whirlwind of emotions, memories, thoughts. It feels like she’s drowning, the input completely overwhelming.

Her life falls apart with a bang and a flash of light.

She opens her eyes to brilliant shades of greens, deep vivid blues, mixed in with purples and browns. Trees and vines and plants of all kinds; the connection instantaneous enough that she doesn’t have to think about it too much: she’s in a jungle.

She’s also not alone.

It takes her seconds to take in the green skin, the robes, the fucking _lightsaber_ , and she just stares. Her vision goes blurry, her legs go weak, and just before her eyes roll back and she goes down, she manages to say one thing.

“ _Shit_.”

* * *

What Riley remembers is walking down the sidewalk towards the heart of campus, her boots crunching in the last of the snow. She remembers the bite of wind on her face, overcast grey skies, and slipping on a hidden patch of ice that sent her knee first into a drift.

But that could have been yesterday.

She rolls over, curling up on her side. What makes her jerk awake – and nearly smack her face into the curved metal wall – is not the shitty futon that feels identical to hers, but that the sheets smell wrong. She always dumps too much Downy in the wash with hers – meaning she goes through the stuff faster than anyone probably has any right to – but they smell so _good_ when she does.

These sheets smell like deceit. They also crinkle like really cheap hotel linen.

Riley scrambles back off the bed, tangles her legs up in the too thin comforter, and falls out of the bed.

“ _Fuck_.”

She’s still fully dressed, minus her boots which are actually sitting at the foot of the bunk she just fell out of. So much for thinking that the snow drift was yesterday.

Pain’s a great way to clear away the sleep fog of half-wakefulness in a hurry, and her memory hits her like a two-by-four to the solar plexus. ‘Fucked’ does not even _begin_ to cover the situation she’s in.

Well, that only applies if it’s real. It could be a dream, brought on by all that binge-watching she’s done lately. Maybe staying up until four-in-the-fucking-morning to finish rewatching the entire original trilogy was a bad idea. That… doesn’t explain anything, though, because if that was the case then she really should have popped up in front of Han Solo and Chewbacca on the _Millennium Falcon_.

That’s usually how these sorts of dreams go – or she thinks they do. She goes off to have nonsensical adventures with various members of the Star Wars mythology and then she wakes up right when she gets to the part where either the Death Star blows up or someone decapitates the Emperor.

Her dreams, though, don’t usually revolve around anything she’s actually watched. Fandom dreams are not something she’s ever really had. And she never remembers her dreams when she wakes up, either. At least, not once she’s out of that bleary-eyed state of half-wakefulness that usually disappears when she walks into the bathroom door or trips over the vacuum.

Flopping back onto the floor, Riley stares up at the ceiling. The weird jungle is gone, replaced by what looks like the inside of the Starship _Enterprise_. It’s all smooth, clean curved lines and when she turns her head to the side, there’s a huge curved window that looks out onto a massive blur that is – _oh holy fuck_.

She scrambles to her feet, forgets that her legs are _still_ tangled in the sheet, and instead crashes back to the ground. Her knees hurt and her wrists are probably plotting her very bloody murder right then, but Riley absolutely _does not care_ at this moment while she frantically crawls over to the window and presses her hands up against it because that is very definitely _fucking hyperspace outside the damn window_.

The window is cool and solid under her fingers, which further emphasizes that she’s absolutely not hallucinating or dreaming this because everything is too real. There are none of the blurry, indistinct qualities that are so characteristic of dreams – it’s all fucking _real_.

Her head’s spinning wildly and it’s not just from the vertigo of watching space blur past the window.

She flops back to sit, landing heavily and just stares blankly at the window.

This is real.

She’s not hallucinating.

It’s all real.

 _She’s in fucking Star Wars_.

She feels lightheaded, vision going blurry and there’s a loud rushing noise in her ears. There’s just no way that this can be _actually happening_ because it’s not possible. Her next thought is that she has to be hallucinating, that maybe she got hit by a car and this is all just a dying dream as her brain slowly shuts down.

That doesn’t explain why her dying dream has her on a starship going to who-the-hell knows where in a galaxy far, far away.

Riley has to clasp her hands together so tightly that her hands start shaking from the effort. Her knuckles ache from it, which just implies further that all of this is _real_ , it’s not her hallucinating or some dying dream. She’s _really_ here.

For whatever reason, all of this is real and that includes the fact that the last thing she remembers is that she fainted in front of a _fucking actual Jedi Knight_. Though it shouldn’t be so clear, the Jedi’s face is, even though she only saw it for a brief moment before she blacked out.

Riley flops back onto the floor with a groan. Mental roster time, she thinks, flicking through her memory while trying to put a name to the face. Placing the large black eyes, green skin and sort-of amphibian appearance doesn’t take long: Kit Fisto. That’s the Jedi who found her and oh _fuck_.

She has no idea _when_ she’s appeared in terms of when anything happens. For all she knows, the Clone Wars could be in full swing and she’s just been tossed into the centre of it and _she has no idea why_. She sits back up, willing down the panic coursing through her and tries to take several deep, steadying breaths. If she can put together a mental list of everything she knows, then maybe she can work this out.

Here is what Riley knows for certain: She’s definitely sometime in the Old Republic, but she has no idea how to narrow that down further. Naboo could still be under blockade, Anakin Skywalker could still be a slave on Tatooine, Palpatine could already be Chancellor. Worse, she can’t _ask_ any of these questions because that either reveals that she knows shit that she shouldn’t, or that she _knows_ what’s coming.

It’s a horrible catch-22. Riley can either start asking questions to figure things out, or… or she can keep her mouth shut until she can figure out _when_ she is. The _where_ , Riley thinks, isn’t as important as the _when_.

She finally gets around to untangling her legs from the sheet and stands up. The room she’s in is nothing more than a very small cabin aboard a spacecraft of some kind. Hyperspace means a ship, means that they’re going _somewhere_. Where, she doesn’t know, but she’d like to.

Aside from the narrow bunk, there’s a desk with what Riley’s pretty sure is a computer. She steps towards it, taps at the screen with her finger tentatively, and it lights up. The interface is semi-holographic. And completely in glyphs that she has _absolutely no clue how to read_.

Riley drops her head into her hands, rubs her face and starts up a mental repetition of the word ‘shit’ over and over again. That dashes the hope that she might have been able to figure this out on her own.

She drops into the chair by the desk and just stares at the unfamiliar glyphs on the screen. Scrubs at her eyes with her hands, “What the fuck am I gonna do now?”

Mulling it over, the first thing that pops into her head is: ‘What would Allu do?’

Following that, she goes, ‘We’re not going to do that, that’s murder.’

Her options are limited. Riley’s pretty sure that however she made her grand entrance, it made a definite impression. Clearly, because she’s not in the jungle anymore and they’re going somewhere. Putting it together, they’re likely going to Coruscant – probably to the Jedi Council itself. A strange girl appears right in front of you, the only possible answer is that the Force did it.

“Oh fuck,” Riley whispers. The Force brought her here. The Force _brought her here and she’s got no fucking idea why_.

There has to be a reason. It wouldn’t bring her here unless it wanted something from her.

Begs the question of why it chose her specifically, but that’s… not as important.

She’s sometime in the period of the Old Republic. That much she _does_ know. If Riley’s meant for some grand purpose, she’s not entirely certain what it is. Some guidance would be greatly appreciated.

 _Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope_.

She snorts and massages her temples. Old Republic means that’s not the case.

Riley’s still got no bloody clue what she’s supposed to be doing when the door to the cabin slides open with a soft whoosh. Her head snaps to look and there stands Kit Fisto, staring at her and she has absolutely no idea what to make of his expression.

She sucks in a deep breath, “I… I won’t speak to anyone but the High Council.”

* * *

The only thing that she tells Kit Fisto is her name. He’s nice enough to not ask her anything more than that, but he shows her around the small transport they’re on. There’s not a lot, just a handful of cabins centred around a large, open common space that houses the craft’s small canteen.

Riley can’t read anything on the menu, though, and ends up just blurting out, “Same as him!”

Luckily for her, she ends up with something that resembles shepherd’s pie in both taste and texture. Given that this is Star Wars, she decides that it’s a good idea not to ask what it actually is or what’s in it. She doesn’t want to think about it.

She encounters the same problem with the shower in the small bathroom in her cabin. There’s no colour indicator on hot or cold, just two glyphs. It’s easy enough to deal with, she turns the water on, cranks it to the middle, and then sticks her hand under the spray while she adjusts the temperature. Despite what one of the other passengers says about the amenities being basic, Riley doesn’t think so. She spends a good _hour_ trying to figure out what everything does.

Their transport comes out of hyperspace just shy of Coruscant. Riley presses her face against the window in her room, staring with wide eyes. She’s seen the planet before numerous times, but seeing it for herself _for real_ and with her own eyes? It takes her breath away.

Coruscant is a glittering planet. It reminds her of the satellite pictures of Earth at night, where the cities are lit up with light. Coruscant looks exactly like that only on a truly massive scale. It sparkles with lights, making it look as though it’s a cluster of stars itself rather than a planet.

She stays pressed up against the glass until their transport lands, watching as the city materializes around them. The skyscrapers are each a shimmering mass, stretching farther into the sky than any she’s ever seen before. Coruscant would put New York to shame.

Kit Fisto comes to get her once they’ve docked.

Stepping out into Coruscant, everything hits her at once. There’s so many scents, the hum of life and energy that rushes through her and leaves her feeling a little giddy. But that isn’t all she feels. There’s a warm pulse, it settles low inside of her, near her heart, and… and there’s something else.

She can actually _feel_ a pressing darkness.

The darkness feels cold, fear slashing through her and clenching around her heart. Riley stumbles. That’s enough to jerk her out of the grasp of the worst of it, though she can still feel its clinging, clammy fingers about her heart. Wrapping her arms around herself, her fingers are cold and she shivers.

“Something wrong?”

“I – no, it’s – it’s nothing,” Riley replies.

It’s a lie. Riley knows that, but she can’t explain it here. She offers him a completely unconvincing smile and shakes off the rest of his concern.

Something is very wrong.

She should not be able to _feel_ his concern, brushing against her like a phantom brush of fingers.

Riley swallows, shoves the dizziness away, and follows Kit Fisto into rush of Coruscanti traffic. There’s a small, speeder-like craft waiting for them and the driver greets the Jedi Master with a smile. Riley lets the driver help her into the craft, sitting down and trying to not look around with wide-eyes. She’s aware that she probably looks like a child in candy store, but she needs to take _everything_ in.

Coruscant is like if New York got a huge futuristic upgrade. Buildings reaching up into the sky, looking as though they might even touch the stars themselves. There’s a fog clinging to the buildings, blocking out her view of the ground below. Looking down gives her a horrible case of vertigo, so she sits back and squeezes her eyes closed, taking deep breaths.

It’s too much to take in all at once. She doesn’t know where to look. Each place she looks, there’s something new; something that looks sort of familiar, only it isn’t.

She’s not in fucking Kansas anymore.

Riley spots the Jedi Temple easily. The tall spires reaching high into the skyline. Approaching it, she feels a sense of calm wash over her, steadying her nerves and brushing away the last vestiges of darkness that clung to her like an unwanted veil.

 _This is it_ , she thinks. _This is really fucking happening_.

Hopefully, she doesn’t vomit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not that anyone cares, but Allu has dragged me into this hell from which there is no escape. I started this weeks ago, but am posting it as part of the Self Insert Week that's going on. So, some stuff to know about the fic: chapters alternate POVs and you can check the chapter title to figure out who is the narrator this time around – the chapters themselves aren't titled. If you've got questions, I'll answer them so you can either leave them here or on [my tumblr](http://graysonflynn.tumblr.com/).
> 
> This is not going to be a short fic, it's going to be long. Currently, I've projected four acts for this fic with corresponding interludes between each one. It's going to be a hellish adventure. Originally, I wasn't going to start posting until I'd finished the first act, but then Self Insert Week was a thing while I was working on it and I decided fuck it, perfect time to post this hell of my creation. I'm planning on having a regular updating schedule for this fic, but I'm going to wait till I've finished more of it before I commit to anything. And, as always, that schedule is subject to change.


	2. Act 1 - Caught in a Storm: Mace Windu

He feels her fear when she steps into the temple. Her Force signature is a maelstrom, powerful but untrained; had she been found young, she would have made for one of their most skilled and dangerous Knights. As it stands, however, she is a curiosity.

A girl who appeared from nothing. Her first _conscious_ demand had been that she be taken to the High Council. She would not speak until then.

Now, she stands before them, hands trembling slightly. Though he can feel her fear, it’s held in check by sheer stubbornness. All of them see the way that she stares at Yoda, though the wide-eyed looks she had been giving Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon – accompanied by the slight disturbance in the Force around her that spoke of _recognition-knowledge-pain-realization_ is most intriguing.

“We’ve been informed of your… unique appearance along with your demand that you would speak to none but us,” Mace says. He watches her, they’re all watching her, and though she’s clearly nervous, she stands just a little straighter under their scrutiny. “Qui-Gon, we will speak of your–”

“I’d prefer if he stayed,” she interrupts, voice wavering. “You may not feel the same, but I consider Qui-Gin Jinn to be a member of this council and will not speak without him present.”

Yoda’s watching her closely now, “Know of Qui-Gon, do you?”

She nods, bites her lip and he can _almost_ hear the question that’s running through her mind.

“Speak your mind,” Mace leans forward, watching her closely.

She looks at him then, wide blue-green eyes and for _just a moment_ as their eyes meet he sees a flash of lightning, the purple of his blade catching it and a window cracking then he’s _falling_ and he hears a softly whispered _no_. She bows her head to him, “Master Windu, thank you, but I feel it would be best if Qui-Gon speaks first and then I’ll answer whatever questions you all may have of me, but I’ll say this first: The news that he brings you is grave. Don’t dismiss it.”

With those ominous words, she wraps her arms protectively around herself, and steps back to give Qui-Gon the floor. She flicks her gaze to Qui-Gon, meets his for the briefest moment, before nodding her head at him in encouragement.

As Qui-Gon gives his report, Mace watches her – though he pays close attention to what Qui-Gon is telling them. He sees how her eyes linger on Qui-Gon, but it’s when her eyes move to Obi-Wan that he feels it. It’s a heart-wrenching pain, it reaches inside of him and squeezes; he can feel the way her heart drops when she looks at him. But then, there’s a feeling of warmth, of protectiveness that rears itself up – defiance in the face of pain, determination shoring up her emotions.

It’s as though she _knows_ something that none of them do.

“I believe that it was a Sith,” Qui-Gon finishes.

“A Sith?”

Mace frowns, returning his attention to Qui-Gon’s report, “I don’t believe that the Sith could have–”

“Returned without you knowing?” She interrupts. The corner of her mouth quirks up a little.

The girl places herself between Qui-Gon and Yoda, her mouth twitching in what is most definitely a mirthless smile. He can feel no amusement within her aura, just grim determination accompanied by a fluttering of annoyance.

“Qui-Gon is right,” she continues. “He encountered a Sith lord on Tatooine by the name of Darth Maul – the apprentice to Darth Sidious. If you would like to verify this, then I suggest you send someone to Dathomir. The Nightsisters will corroborate this.”

Silence falls. Mace feels the other masters shift uneasily in their seats and finds _himself_ at something of a loss because the Sith could _not_ have returned without their knowing, yet this girl stands before them claiming that that they have. She has even offered them the chance to find _proof_.

“Give us this information, you do. The purpose of it, however, I do not know.”

Her mouth is a thin line and she looks away from Yoda. Instead, she looks around and takes in each member of the council, though her gaze once again lingers on Obi-Wan, before she looks back to Yoda and squares her shoulders. She’s quite tall for a human woman, even more so now with her straight posture.

“Because the path you’re on is _wrong_.”

Mace blinks, “You cannot–”

She shakes her head, the motion frantic. As she speaks, her words come faster and faster until they’re close to running together, “I do! I wouldn’t _lie_ about something like this. Believe me, _please_. If – if you don’t listen to what I have to say, then I can tell you now that in less than fifteen years, only _two people_ in this room will still be alive.”

“And what proof do you bring that what you speak of is true?”

Mace blinks, she’s sat herself down on the floor in front of Yoda’s chair, staring at him with too wide eyes. He can _feel_ the influence of her on them all, a desperate plea for them to listen and he _wants to_. She pulls on the Force unconsciously and it responds as though it’s a part of her, imploring them to listen despite their reservations on the subject.

“If you don’t believe me, then I’ll _show you_.”

“Darkness, you invite.”

She stares hard at Yoda, her jaw is set and she leans forward. The very _presence_ of her willpower is tangible. Her voice is low and intense as she speaks, power crackling about and through her, “No, I’m offering this freely of my own will and by my own choice. You cannot steal something that you have been granted permission to take.”

“A good argument, you make,” Yoda concedes. “Important it is, what you bring to us. What it is, though, I must know more.”

“A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away,” she recites. Her eyes have a slightly distracted look to them, her brow furrowed while she speaks. “Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic. The taxation of trade routes to… to outlying systems is in dispute. Hoping to resolve the matter with a blockade, the Trade Federation has stopped all shipping to the planet of Naboo. While the Republic debates this, the Supreme Chancellor secretly dispatched two Jedi Knights, the guardians of peace and justice in the galaxy, to settle the conflict.”

She has _all_ of their attention now, completely undivided.

Through all of that, she has not once looked away from Yoda. He watches her warily, but Mace knows that he will do what she asks. Her aura, her demeanor, is earnest and open – he can detect no falsehoods in her. There’s no touch of darkness to her. If he closed his eyes, Mace thinks, he would sense her as blazing white light.

“Very well,” Yoda says at last. “Show me, you will.”

Dead silence falls as Yoda stands from his seat. He stands in front of her, gently reaching out to touch her face. Her eyes fall closed, she takes a deep breath, and all he can describe it as is that she _lets go_.

All of them feel it, a rush of energy emanates out from her, a tumble of emotions that pass by too quickly for him to identify them all. He can only sense the brushes of her emotions, her thoughts, as she shows Yoda what she knows.

It stretches on for minutes. Yoda’s face changes, reflecting hers. He sees Yoda stumble at one point, feels the pure _despair_ that is unlike anything he has ever known; the devastation that rocks through the entirety of the council chamber is palpable. It’s crushing, all is lost, there is nothing to be done, nothing that can be saved. Everything is _gone_.

Then, a soft brush of hope before everything falls once more into a haze of flickering emotions. As though she cannot settle on just one.

Death. _Desolation_. Loss. Pain. Suffering. _Hope_. Triumph. Resignation.

Yoda stumbles back from her and she sways where she sits, falling forward and catching herself on her hands. Her eyes are swollen and red, cheeks wet with tears and her shoulders shake with sobs. She stays like that for several moments, hunched over and quietly crying into her hands.

He can feel the tremble in Yoda, emotions that he never thought to sense from the ancient master. His shields are cracked, still not as strong as the should be from the meld he has shared with this strange girl who has come to them with a warning of death on her tongue.

The lingering feeling is despair. It seeps down into him, right to his bones, and clings to him. His breath catches in his throat, which tightens to the point of pain. There’s something burning behind his eyes – _tears_. He’s on the verge of actual tears.

A quick glance around the room reveals that he is not the only one. Not a single member of the council has been left unaffected.

“Grave tidings you bring indeed,” Yoda says at last. His voice shakes, cracks. Not even the grand master can hide his very emotional reaction. “Meditate and deliberate on this, we must.”

Her head snaps up at that, mouth a thin line. There’s a crackle in the Force, a snap, “You cannot wait. You must take action.”

Yoda sighs and, in that moment, he looks his age – ancient and _tired_. “A point, young one, you have indeed. Hasty actions, though, we must avoid.”

“I get that,” she says. With the back of her hand, she wipes away the last of her tears, though her face remains a red, blotchy mess. “I’m sorry, but you don’t have the luxury of time.”

“This Council–”

“I don’t think you _get it_ ,” she snaps. She rises back to her feet, “What you’re dealing with? The Sith haven’t been sitting around for a thousand years, twiddling their thumbs and doing their damndest to imitate Vulcans – they’ve been _growing_ in power. You’re not facing the Sith of a thousand years ago; you’re facing the Sith of _now_ and they’re strong – they have had a millennia to adapt, to change, and to _grow_. Unlike the Order, they have not stagnated.”

She bites her lip, “And… and if you’re not going to listen to me – because I know that you’re probably all as stubborn as I am – then I’ll tell you straight up right now that I’ll just take all the kids with me and fuck off to some distant ass planet. You’re a bunch of adults, you can make your own decisions: but I will not stand by and let children be _massacred_!”

It floods through him in a torrent, flashing from one image to the next. Soldiers in white following Jedi, guarding their backs. He sees Mundi turn, confusion upon his face, then they fire on him. The first few shots are deflected, but there are too many and he goes down. Robes smoking and they fire. They fire again and again.

Vision shifts. Aayla Secura. The same white armoured soldiers at her back.

She does not have the chance to draw her weapon.

They fire. Again. Again. Over and over. The noise of blasterfire burning into his memory. The sight shifts, her body blocked by foliage. But it cannot hide the flash of blasters. He cannot count the shots.

There is Plo Koon. His fighter shot down.

The vision keeps shifting. He sees faces – _so many faces_ – that he knows, recognizes. Each of them falling, having no time to register what is happening. There is no time for resignation. Each shot through the back.

Betrayal.

It burns sickly through him. _Not his feelings, no, not his but **hers**._ She feels the betrayal keenly, like a stab through her own chest and she broadcasts it to them. She shows them.

Another sudden, violent shift. The temple. He recognizes the temple, recognizes the soldiers in white.

With a sick twist in his stomach, he realizes what is coming next. A lone youngling slides out of hiding. He cannot hear the words, but a _lightsaber ignites and_ –

It changes, shifts, there’s flame everywhere. Fire burning and it feels as though his heart is being crushed, torn from his chest. _Heat_. He cannot breathe, his lungs are burning. His entire body aches, but it cannot overcome the desolate hole inside of him.

_“I loved you!”_

The words echo, loud in his head. Everything has been torn from him. He loved – _oh how he loved_ – and now it’s all going up in flames. But that – that cannot be true, these are not his feelings, not _his_ emotions.

Mace takes a deep, shuddering breath, breaking the flood of images.

She takes a stumbling step back, pressing a hand to her temple. Her body is shaking, trembling, and her breathing hiccups.

Qui-Gon steps forward and places a hand on her shoulder, squeezes it. His mouth is a thin line, but when she looks at him with questions in her eyes, he manages a smile for her.

The oppressive atmosphere lessens, just a little. The _hurt-sorrow-pain-loss-love-despair_ drawn back into her. She _projected_ all of that, Mace realizes. She has absolutely no training in the ways of the Force, but she easily cracked through the defences of an entire room of the Order’s elite to show them these memories.

Yoda says nothing, simply sits in his chair and stares at his hands where they rest upon his stick. For once, he is lost for words.

They all are.

“... I think I’m gonna throw up,” she says eventually. She’s swaying on her feet, face ashen and skin too pale.

“Think on this, we will.” Yoda’s words come slowly, haltingly. He takes a deep breath, shaken and his presence in the Force is still too raw, too open – all of theirs are. She has torn them open and flooded in her pain – _not even hers, theirs, it’s theirs and it will come she knows **she knows**._

“Your fate and that of this young Skywalker, we will deliberate,” Yoda continues. “The Queen makes her plea to the Senate tomorrow. After, we will discuss more.”

She simply nods her head, swaying on her feet, too drained to do much else other than comply. She feels empty, as though she has poured out too much of herself to them.

Wrapping a supportive arm about her shoulders, Qui-Gon speaks, “Until a decision is made, you will stay with us.”

“Alright,” she says quietly. Then, even softer, “Not like I have anywhere else to go.”


	3. Act 1 - Caught in a Storm: Qui-Gon

Qui-Gon watches her out of his peripheral vision, Obi-Wan a tense presence at his other side. He stands as the buffer between them, she a maelstrom of untrained talent and Obi-Wan the quietly contained core.

She’d stumbled along beside them to the elevator, the Force curling around her and slowly her steps had become more sure until she walked straight again. The Force answers to her easily, like an extension of her that she accesses without a thought – almost as though it’s the air she breathes.

It’s only when they’re in the elevator that she breaks the tense silence.

“You’re not taking me to meet Padmé, right? Because I guarantee that I _will_ make an ass of myself if you do,” she says. She keeps looking out the windows, taking in the city with too wide eyes. “And, uh, I fancy not dying in the near future, so there’s that.”

“Why would taking you to meet a handmaiden result in you dying?”

“Obi-Wan.”

She turns her head, blinks slowly, “Okay, for one thing: I am an absolutely shitty liar. For another, do I _look_ like I’m dressed to meet the _Queen of Naboo_?”

Obi-Wan’s brow is furrowed, trying to connect the dots and it’s actually quite funny. It’s a rare delight to see Obi-Wan so open.

“She–”

“ _Padmé_ Amidala is the damn queen and I’m gonna pay her the respect she deserves,” she replies. “And that means not showing up looking like I just fell out of a dumpster after a weekend long bender.”

“What does that even _mean_?”

Qui-Gon smothers a laugh, “It means she would like a shower, a change of clothes, and likely something to eat.”

She gives Qui-Gon two thumbs up, then, upon seeing the confusion, says, “What he said.”

When the elevator slows to a stop, Qui-Gon steps out first, his two companions trailing along behind him. He can feel Obi-Wan’s confusion, emotions a whirl; he hasn’t recovered from the sheer emotional dump that she dropped on them in the council chamber.

The girl, on the other hand, is an enigma. She’s drawing on the Force for strength, her energy coming from it rather than her own body. That emptiness is still there, as though she let everything out and is waiting for the tides to come back. Although she walks now under her own power, he knows that she’ll collapse soon enough from exhaustion.

She’s looking around the temple with wide eyes, trying to take everything in at once. She acts like a youngling newly brought to the temple, astonished at each new sight with her curiosity threatening to bubble over at every turn. But she doesn’t stop to stare. She doesn’t flinch away from the curious looks thrown her way, smiling shyly back at those who meet her eyes.

“You haven’t told us your name,” Qui-Gon says, as they round the corner to where their chambers are.

“Huh?” She blinks, looking owlish. There are dark circles under her eyes, “Oh. Right. I’m Riley.”

She hesitates at the door only briefly before stepping inside. Their rooms are furnished sparsely with the only thought being towards utilitarianism. She doesn’t seem comfortable with how void the room is of any personal touches, another little detail that he files away in his growing catalogue of her oddities.

Obi-Wan strides to leave, but she catches the sleeve of his robe, voice impossibly soft, “Wait.”

“What–”

Riley’s biting her lip, then she looks up at Obi-Wan, “I want to help you. I’m _going_ to help you. Because you deserve better.”

Their eyes meet and they just stare at each other. Riley’s radiating determination and a rapidly coalescing warmth that Qui-Gon recognizes as _love_ or, at least, the beginnings of it. He hides a smile behind his hand, because the fierce protectiveness Riley’s throwing off is both amusing and incredibly endearing. Her Force signature is so open and honest, so _genuine_ and _powerful_ that it would be easy to get lost in.

He’s quite curious to know just how powerful she is, how strong she could be if she had even a modicum of Jedi training. Although she is likely not as strong in it as Anakin, she pulls on it differently. She’s been unconsciously drawing on it through the entirety of her meeting with the Council and, even now, it swirls around her.

“Why are you doing this?” Obi-Wan asks, after a long silence has passed.

Riley’s mouth curves in a small, sad smile, “Because I care. And you’re a good person, Obi-Wan. You deserve better than what you got.”

There’s another long stretch of silence. Obi-Wan looks… confused, but also resigned. Riley’s obviously stubborn, her lecture to the council is still very fresh in mind. Combining her personality’s inclination to being headstrong with natural Force sensitivity, she is a force to be reckoned with – training will turn her into a force of nature.

Riley lets Obi-Wan’s sleeve slip from her fingers, but her expression hasn’t changed, “I promise I’ll help you. No matter what.”

It’s very rare that Obi-Wan’s lost for words. He opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it instead, and swallows. He nods his head wordlessly. There isn’t anything to say to that.

“You must be tired, Riley,” Qui-Gon interrupts.

The way they jerk away from each other is like two younglings caught doing something inappropriate. Obi-Wan looks away, but Riley’s face lights up – turning bright pink from the tips of her ears down to her neck. Riley shifts from one foot to the other, staring at her feet.

She clears her throat, “Shower first, then food.”

Qui-Gon gestures towards the small bathroom and the door slides open with a soft brush of the Force.

“Thanks.”

Once the door slides shut behind her, Obi-Wan leans against the wall and cross his arms. There’s a furrow to between his brows and he stares at the floor where Riley stood before.

“Speak, my young padawan,” Qui-Gon says. He shrugs out of his outer robe and lays it over one of the chairs at their very small kitchen table. Their quarters are stocked with a very small kitchenette which is stocked with the necessities, all carefully maintained and supplied.

“I don’t know what to think of her,” Obi-Wan replies, after a long pause. “She’s… she _feels_ genuine. I cannot deny what she knows and what she showed us – and the council. I believe her, but at the same time, I don’t know what to think of her. Especially now.”

“She cares – about you and about what your possible future holds.”

“But _why_ does she?”

“You would have to ask her that,” Qui-Gon replies. “But you may not like her answer.”

Riley strides out of the bathroom a few minutes later, towel wrapped around herself and Obi-Wan pointedly stares at the wall. She’s making a face, hair wet from the shower, as she takes a seat at the table, “So, I’m definitely going to need a change of clothes because mine smell _awful_ and I just realized that there’s a hole in the crotch of my leggings the size of my fist.”

Clearly looking for an escape of the situation of being in a room with a practically naked woman, Obi-Wan edges along the wall of the room. He refuses to even _glance_ in Riley’s direction, slipping into his small sleeping alcove. He reappears a few moments later, a neatly folded pile of his spare robes in his arms.

He sets them on the kitchen table, beside Riley, still not meeting her eyes, “Here.”

“Thank you.”

Riley’s smile is very genuine, but Obi-Wan refuses to look at her and the back of his neck is rapidly turning very, very red. Her attempts to catch his eye fail miserably, much to her confusion and Obi-Wan’s quickly escalating embarrassment.

Once it becomes clear that Obi-Wan won’t meet her eyes, she sighs and slumps back in her chair, “Not to seem rude or anything but, um, I still don’t have any underwear to, y’know, _wear_.”

“C-can’t you–”

Riley gives Obi-Wan a look that makes Qui-Gon come very, very close to laughing.

“I’m not running around, meeting important people, without proper support for the girls.” She gestures at her breasts, which is pointless as Obi-Wan has shifted his gaze to stare at the ceiling rather than at her.

He plates the simple meal, sliding it onto the table in front of Riley, alongside a cup of water and utensils. But he can’t hide the tilt of his smile as he addresses his padawan, “Obi-Wan can find you replacements.”

The look Obi-Wan gives him is absolutely _priceless_. It only lasts for a brief second, before he swallows very hard and nods. Obi-Wan turns sharply, and stiffly, on his heels and marches out of their shared apartment like there’s a stampeding herd on his tail.

Before he’s out the door, Riley blurts out, “Wait, don’t you need to know what size?!”

Obi-Wan freezes in the doorframe, “... size?”

Riley looks at him, pushing away from the table and standing, “Uh, yeah? There are different sizes. Coruscant has bra sizes, right? That’s something that stayed the same. I hope.”

“I don’t...”

Riley sighs, “Hold on.”

She disappears back into the bathroom, returning after a few seconds with a bright blue and teal garment in one hand and a strange, small rectangle in the other. She cocks her head at Obi-Wan, “Do you just want the tag or do you just wanna take the whole thing with you?”

Riley turns it over in her hands, fingers finding the tag easily. Before she rips it off, though, she stops, “Uh, so I guess you have to take it with you.”

“I can’t just take the… tag?”

Riley frowns, turning it so that they can both see the frayed, faded white piece of fabric sewn into the backstrap. If there was anything printed there, it’s long been washed away from wear and cleaning. Now that she’s holding it in her hands, it’s obvious as to why she’s so insistent on proper support.

Qui-Gon covers his mouth with his hand. _Oh, this is just too funny_ …

Warily, Obi-Wan takes her bra from her. His face is bright, bright red now, and he hastily tucks it inside his robe, which creates a very awkward looking lump in the fabric. If he shifts his arm too much, it reveals the bright teal fabric with its blue lace detailing. There is absolutely nothing about this that _isn’t_ hilarious.

It’s with a very straight back that Obi-Wan strides purposefully out of their quarters, the back of his neck still flushed red.

Qui-Gon smothers a laugh, but can’t hide the smile on his face.

Riley, for her part, just looks very confused, “It’s just a bra.”

“He’s not so experienced with what you would call the fairer sex,” Qui-Gon says. He takes a seat at the table, gesturing for her to return to hers and the plate of food that is rapidly going cold that sits there. “He won’t return for some time. You should eat, and then you can rest.”

“Right,” Riley nods.

She has the look of a pampered young woman, all soft curves and even softer hands. Her face, shoulders, and arms are covered in more than a simple smattering of freckles, which compliment her pale skin. For a woman of her age, Qui-Gon guesses that she’s likely done no more work than pushing papers of some kind.

Riley eats in silence and Qui-Gon watches her, his arms crossed. Looking at her, it’s hard to believe that the Force chose her for this quest, but the Force moves in mysterious and unknown ways. It has its reasons for choosing her; he will simply have to wait to find out what those are.

She looks at Qui-Gon when she finishes her meal. Questions flitter through her eyes, but she asks none of them.

“Who was it?” Qui-Gon asks, at last.

Riley blinks, “Who was what?”

“I know my padawan, Riley,” Qui-Gon says, quietly. “And I know his voice.”

He expects her to look away, to bite her lip, to worry over whether she should tell him or not. She does none of that.

She looks him straight in the eye and says, without pause, “Anakin.”

The glimpse she gave is not enough for him to know everything, but the depths of that desperation, that devotion and that _love_ leave an impression. They may not wholly be Riley’s emotions, her projections or foreknowledge – there’s an element of Obi-Wan to them. He knows his padawan and knows him well.

“And?”

“His love for Anakin is what gives the galaxy hope. Purely because he _loved_ him… that’s how the prophecy completes itself.” Riley snorts, “The Jedi preach that love is an attachment, don’t they? That it’s something forbidden. It’s a load of shit: Love is _the_ most powerful force in the galaxy. It’s the weakness of the dark side.”

Qui-Gon lifts an eyebrow, “Is it?”

Riley’s smile is that horrible, mirthless one from earlier, “Love is what will save the galaxy. Love is what undoes Darth Sidious, what destroys him. The love of a father for his son.”

He has many, many more questions for her, but those can wait. There will be time and more later. First, though, they must deal with the immediate concern: namely, the Sith that attacked him on Tatooine.

“You showed Master Yoda many things,” Qui-Gon begins. “And you mentioned the Sith I fought on Tatooine.”

“Darth Maul,” Riley nods. “Tomorrow, Queen Amidala will address the senate and realize that they will do nothing, so she’ll resolve to go back to Naboo. To save her people. Anakin will be taken to the Jedi Council, who will say ‘oh no we don’t want to train him he’s too old and also he’s full of fear and that means the dark side blah blah blah’. But that’s not what you want to know, is it?”

“Your amount of foreknowledge is impressive, I must admit.”

“If you’re trawling for answers about Darth Maul, you can just ask. Like I said, I’m a pretty shitty liar and I want to help. There’s… things that I want to change.”

“And what would those be?”

Riley looks at him, the Force trembling around her, “Your death, for one.”

“Mine?”

She nods, the motion near frantic, “Your death is the domino that sets everything that comes after into motion: Obi-Wan training Anakin, who needs an experienced master and not a newly knighted one still grieving your death. Dooku’s disillusionment with the Jedi Order and his turning to the Sith. I can stop it; I know I can, I just don’t know _how_ yet.”

Qui-Gon leans forward, rests his hands on the table, and smiles at her, “Perhaps you should start with what you _do_ know.”

“You and Obi-Wan will be charged with returning to Naboo with the queen tomorrow,” Riley bites her lip, again. “I’m glossing over some of this, because it’s not as important to know _now_. You’ll find Maul in the hangar and the three of you will duel. He has a double-sided saber, by the way, and he uses that to kill you. In front of Obi-Wan.”

She says the last part like it’s _important_ , but he can’t quite see how it is.

The confusion must show on his face – probably in the wrinkle of his brow – because Riley sighs and then continues, as though to clear it up. She sounds more than a little bit exasperated with him as she does, however.

“He won’t kill Obi-Wan. Matter of fact, he _won’t_ fight Obi-Wan all out. He’ll want to put Obi-Wan through as much hell as he can to _turn_ him. Maul will want Obi-Wan for himself.”

He feels Obi-Wan’s return before he reaches the door. It slides open only a second later, revealing an incredibly flustered looking Obi-Wan. He’s carrying a small bundle that Qui-Gon recognizes instantly as Jedi-issue underwear for women.

“Your, um, things,” Obi-Wan says, placing them on the folded pile of his spare robes for Riley. He still won’t meet her eyes.

Because he won’t meet her eyes, he misses the sad look in them and how her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Qui-Gon sees, files it away carefully, and watches as she catches Obi-Wan’s hand for a moment before he can pull it away. She squeezes it, her smile still brittle and small.

“Thank you.”


	4. Act 1 – Caught in a Storm: Anakin

Qui-Gon brings him to the temple.

It’s huge, much bigger and more grand than anything he’s ever seen before in his life. Nothing on Tatooine compares to this, not even the sleek lines of the Nubian ship that they traveled on.

He trails along behind Qui-Gon, head straining back as he tries to take in the sheer size of the temple. When he looks down, to look around, he feels eyes on him and looks.

She’s tall and pretty, Anakin thinks. Not an angel like Padmé, but her eyes are warm when they meet his and her smile is sweet.

“Hello,” she says. Her eyes are like the sky before a rare rainstorm, blue fletched with grey. Unlike Obi-Wan, whose smile never quite reaches his eyes, or Qui-Gon who always seems to be smiling even when he isn’t, her smile is wide and earnest; her face is open and even _he_ can read her easily.

“Hi,” Anakin replies. “I’m Anakin. Are you a Jedi?”

She laughs, bites her lip, but she’s still smiling. “No, I’m not. And I’m Riley, by the way.”

He frowns, because Riley is dressed in Jedi robes. Or… no, not quite. She lacks the long-sleeved undertunic that both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan wear; hers is simply sleeveless. The colours are the same as Obi-Wan’s though, and they don’t seem to fit her well. They’re too loose in the shoulders, a bit snug about the chest.

“Are you wearing Obi-Wan’s robes?”

He can see Obi-Wan over her shoulder. The Jedi looks away, his cheeks turning pink.

“I can’t meet the council naked,” Riley replies, winking at Anakin. “Obi-Wan was nice enough to lend me something to wear, since I kind of tore a hole in my clothes.”

“Speaking of the council, we should go unless we wish to be fashionably late,” Qui-Gon says.

He feels his nerves drop back into his stomach, fear curdling low in his gut. It’s been plaguing him since he left for the temple. He drops his head and nods. Anakin tries to swallow back the fear, but it lodges in his throat.

A warm hand drops on his shoulder, he jerks his head up.

Riley’s beside him, looking at him with a soft smile, “You alright?”

“I…” He swallows again. He wants to say he’s fine. To lie and tell her that he isn’t afraid. He hasn’t been afraid, he wants this – he _wants_ to become a Jedi.

Her eyes flicker over his face, her smile turning much warmer and her hand tightening on his shoulder. She says, “It’s alright, you know. To be afraid.”

He blinks up at her, “You’re not afraid.”

“You want me to let you in on a secret?” She looks at Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon’s backs, but he sees how her eyes linger just a little bit longer on Obi-Wan’s. Her words are quiet, “Everyone’s afraid. It’s what you do about that fear that matters.”

“But if I’m gonna be a Jedi, I need to be brave. Not afraid.”

“Words to live by, Anakin: Bravery isn’t the absence of fear, but the judgment that something is more important than the fear.”

Anakin’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but Riley’s hand is a warm comfort on his shoulder as they take the elevator up to the council chamber. He leans into it and into the warmth of her body. She doesn’t smell like his mother, but she smells nice – clean, he thinks, and soft – and she holds him close.

“You two wait here,” Qui-Gon says. “I need to speak with the council, briefly, then you’ll each be summoned in.”

They’re left standing there, outside the council chamber.

Anakin’s shaking.

“Anakin?” Riley asks softly. “Is… is it alright if I hold you?”

He blinks, then looks at her, “Why?”

“I – well, would it help?”

He thinks about that. Then nods.

Riley crouches down in front of him, reaches out, and pulls him close. Her cheek brushes against his, her skin soft like fine silk, and he wraps his arms around her in kind, clings to her like he clung to his mother.

He gets a flash of a blond haired young man, young and gangly, thin like a rail. He has warm eyes, though, and he can see Riley in that man. Traces of similarities in their noses and the shape of their eyes. He sees a woman, who looks like an older, shorter version of Riley. And a tall man with dark hair and eyes, who smiles and says that they’re proud of her.

Anakin feels more than hears the hitch of Riley’s breathing, and she holds him tighter. She murmurs, “It’s going to be alright, Anakin. It’s going to be alright. I’ll protect you.”

He sees other flickers, too. Red vision and hurt, pain. He sees a man standing, waiting, dressed in black who draws a lightsaber and faces another man. He can’t make out what’s being said, and the vision fades quickly. He’s only left with a faint impression of it.

“Are you alright?” Anakin asks.

Riley pulls back, her eyes are wet, but she smiles despite the tears, “I’m – alright, I’m not fine. That would be lying and I’m not going to lie to you. I’m a lot of things, Anakin, but I’m a bad liar.”

“Are you going to become a Jedi too?”

She laughs, the sound a little sharp around the edges like broken glass, “No. I’m way too old to become a Jedi. But I’m here cause the council needs to decide what to do with me. And what I’ve told them.”

“What do you mean?” Anakin is still in the circle of her arms and he’s not too willing to leave it. Padmé was nice, tucked him in, and she really is an angel, but Riley is something real and something human. It’s not that she’s better than Padmé, but just more… there. He could wrap his arms around her and he knows that she’d do the same, without thought or question.

She sighs, chews her lip thoughtfully, “Alright so. The future has a lot of different paths, right? And if you make certain choices, you’ll end up on certain paths. You make the choices you feel are best when you make them, but you can’t go back and change them if you realize that they might not have been the right ones. You follow?”

He nods.

“Hindsight is 20/20,” Riley says. Then, “It’s a saying, where I come from. That everything looks different when you look back and you wonder why you didn’t make another choice because _obviously_ you should have. Think of me like that hindsight, except I exist in the moment you make the decision.”

Anakin blinks, “You know the future?”

“One of them.” She sounds bitter, then she adds, “But I’m trying to keep that one from happening.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because you deserve better,” Riley replies. “And so does Obi-Wan. And Padmé. And a lot of other people that we both know or haven’t met yet. So, I’m going to try and make sure that future doesn’t happen.”

“It’s a bad future, is it?” Anakin frowns. He wonders if the flash he saw had anything to do with it. He wants to ask, but he doesn’t know if he wants the answer. No, he thinks, he’ll wait.

“I… wouldn’t necessarily say that it’s a _bad_ future, but it’s a sad one, definitely.”

“And you’re going to stop it?”

She smiles, nods, “I’m going to try.”

“Then I’ll help you.”

Her smile slips, then it’s huge, stretching her face. Her smile is so wide that Anakin’s surprised that it doesn’t split her face right open. She crushes him to her in a giant hug.

“Thank you, Anakin,” she says it into his hair.

“You’re welcome.”

With Riley’s arms wrapped tightly around him, the ball of fear deep inside of him slowly loosens. Though it doesn’t leave him completely, he feels less alone than he has since he stepped aboard the starship and left behind everything he had ever known. And everyone he has loved.

In that instant, he knows that whatever may come, whatever he may face, he will not face it alone.

Riley is slow to let him go, but she’s still smiling as she does. Her hands are a comforting, warm weight on his shoulders and Anakin has to bite back the urge to lunge back into her arms. He can do this, he tells himself, over and over again. He repeats it, lets it sink in.

Gently, Riley chucks him under the chin, her smile turning into more of a grin, “Don’t worry, Anakin. Your dream’s gonna come true.”

Before he can say anything in response to that, Qui-Gon emerges from the council chamber. He still has that knowing little glint of a smile in his eyes when he sees them and Anakin is beginning to believe that it’s his default expression.

“The council will see you now, Anakin. Are you ready?”

Anakin nods.

Riley gives his shoulder a last squeeze, before she pulls away and stands. As he walks into the council chamber, he sees her flash him two thumbs up. He knows that it means it will be fine.

The door closes behind him with a soft swoosh, leaving him in the room with Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, and the entire Jedi High Council. Certainly, it’s an intimidating sight. Anakin can feel the currents of power that ebb and flow through the room, the scrutiny of every single member upon him, and straightens his shoulders. He tries to conjure back that feeling of warmth from before, only managing to capture an echo of it.

He hopes that it’s enough.

 

The tests that they put him through are simple.

Even though he’s young and untrained, Anakin can read the look that Masters Yoda and Windu exchange as the latter lowers the display in his hand. He’s passed. With flying colours.

Yoda sighs, “Deny that he is powerful, we cannot.”

“Then the matter is settled,” Qui-Gon says. “I will take Anakin on as my padawan learner.”

“Already have one padawan, you do, Qui-Gon,” Yoda replies.

“Obi-Wan is strong and trained well. There is little more that I can teach him,” Qui-Gon explains. “I believe that he should take the trials.”

“I’m ready,” Obi-Wan steps forward.

“We decide who is ready to take the trails. Not you.” Windu looks at the three of them, hard, but his gaze settles on Anakin, “Still, the boy will need to be trained.”

Yoda nods, “Trained, the boy will be. Another matter, however there is.”

“We will speak with her first,” Windu says. “Then make our final decision.”


End file.
